No sun, no shadow, he thought.
Is this brown door open, or has someone locked it?
Six grey stairsteps; the third one was mine.
I would sit there in silence. Cars were not the kings of Dublin roads, yet.
No smell of fumes, no noises: you, the pavement, the black glossy rails surrounding the basement, and that was it.
No: that was me.

No noises in Positano as well, if truth be told.
Even now I can see right in front of me that white door of my grandparents’ home, the stairs on the right, the white railings.
And the light, oh god what a glaring light there was.

Maybe one wet petticoat put on the line between the top of the stairs and the lintel of the door.
Was it – that petticoat, I mean – white and sleeveless and loose as I happen to see it now?
Whose was it?
Have I ever seen, there, a woman whose body went caressed by that thin linen fabric?

Red-brown bricks, down in Merrion Square. Grey life, squared and regular just like the sash-windows.
Tuff walls in Positano, the salty smell of the sea, the blue over my red-haired little head.
Blue and red.
Oh, well: blue and orange, to be precise.
Am I blue and orange? Would I like to be such a man?
It’s time to go.